


Anoint Your Wings With Love

by Semianonymity



Category: Toriko (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Caretaking, Gen, Grooming, M/M, Multi, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 10:52:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13188564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semianonymity/pseuds/Semianonymity
Summary: Wingfic: the first time Komatsu preened each of the Kings, and the first time they each preened him.Alternate title via owlphallacies: Hot Studs Preen Tiny TwinkNothing explicitly or overtly romantic, but likely to be read as the beginnings of a romance.





	1. Toriko

It took Komatsu a little while—it took until he stopped being so afraid—to notice that Toriko's wings were a little disordered, a little rough in places. They weren't in _bad_ shape, of course! They were clean, orderly, it was just. More functional than perfect. Like they were preened just enough for maintenance, and not any more.

And they were—stunning, dark steely gray and _huge_ , big enough that even Komatsu was impressed—almost as big as his own wings, but of course a lot more proportionate. ...Komatsu's wings were so big to they were kind of ridiculous, Komatsu knew, as much as he liked the wings he had.

But Toriko's wings—

Powerful, built equally for soaring and for maneuverability, smooth, even, gray on top and white-and-dark bands below, the kind of wings you only ever _heard_ about, and it was clear that Toriko's diet was amazing—not that it could be anything else! The feathers were strong and straight and true, the pigmentation dark and clear, and they were so stunning—and Toriko so intimidating—that Komatsu missed it at first.

The feathers were ruffled where Toriko's pack sat, like they weren't reshaped firmly enough or often enough. In general, they just weren't— _cared_ for, the way wings should be. He tried to put it out of mind—it was a very personal thing—and by the end of the trip, Komatsu's own wings were looking pretty sad, especially compared to Toriko's. And Toriko—he caught a glimpse one morning—had the flexibility to preen himself even close to the base of the wings, which Komatsu certainly couldn't manage. And his arms weren't long enough to get the ends of his wings, either—so he was worse off than most people would be after a week on their own.

Even more than a hot shower, it was having his wings clean and straightened, his skin warm with the feel of trusted fingers rustling through his feathers, that was the greatest relief at the end of that first trip. Komatsu was single, too busy for many close friendships, distanced from his family, and so he was part of a preening circle, similar adults who got to know each other enough for the business of preening to be a pleasure instead of simply terribly awkward. With Himari, a widowed accountant, chattering away behind him as she put his feathers back in order, Komatsu had to wonder. Toriko could preen his own wings well enough, but did he have anyone else to do it for him?

\--------------

"Toriko?" Komatsu asked, politely, trying to keep his voice steady—although from the odd way Toriko glanced over at him, it hadn't quite worked. "I was wondering if you'd help me with my wings," Komatsu blurted out all in a rush, face painfully hot but his stomach feeling like it was full of ice, embarrassed to ask for such a personal thing but determined to get it out—

No matter what happened. In the silence that followed, Toriko kept on _staring_ at him, and Komatsu kept on talking, uncomfortable and trying to make things—okay again. Because Toriko was—important, and his trips with Toriko were worth more than—anything, Komatsu thought, stomach clenching tighter at the unexpected bare truth of that thought.

"I mean—I'd be happy to preen you back, if you wouldn't mind! If—I know you can reach your wings yourself, and I feel bad asking but I just _can't_ , and I'm itchy, I'm starting to get some pinfeathers in, and I've got really long wings, and if you're already doing your own—if you won't want me to—I understand. You don't have to! I really know that it's a little forward and—I'm sorry I asked, I shouldn't have—"

"You're really okay with it?" Toriko asked, looking—startled? Happy? And Komatsu fell silent, mouth open and eyes wide and—

"Only if you are!" Komatsu blurted out.

"You don't have to do mine. I'm used to preening myself," Toriko said, his grin just as wide but not as _bright_ as it usually was. “I'll do yours either way.” Komatsu's fingers tightened automatically, his palms suddenly aching, because he didn't know—he wasn't anything at all like sure—but it felt like Toriko was giving him an excuse to say no.

"Toriko—I'd be happy to preen you, if you want. Even if you don't help with my wings," Komatsu said, a little too loud, words a little clouded with the threatening congestion of tears, but he had to get them out, had to make it sound as serious at it was, because he _meant_ it.

"It's been a long time," Toriko said with a little bit of a laugh, and that made Komatsu shiver, like he’d stepped into water and found it colder and deeper than he’d expected.

"You first?" Komatsu asked, not really meaning to, the words just slipping out. He was already looking around for something, some way to set up the chairs so he could get at all of Toriko's wings. "I—don't take this the wrong way! I know you can preen your own wings, but you have this ruffled patch, and--it just looks uncomfortable?"

Toriko laughed, but he sounded unsettled, and he was already unfolding his wings, stretching them out—and _out—_ and settling himself down into a sprawl, wings half-folded and limp along the ground. Komatsu couldn't wait any longer, and he settled in at Toriko's side, fingers practically itching to get down into the ruffled down and smooth crinkled feathers. Toriko's wings were beautiful, and they could be _spectacular_. But--

Komatsu was careful, not out of politeness but something that was more like caution, because Toriko was—huge and strange and intimidating and friendly, but was he really not used to preening with other people? The want in his eyes had looked so _fragile_ that it had been frightening. Especially compared to how uninhibited and unashamed Toriko's other desires were—for food, mostly, his appetite unending and enthusiastic. So Komatsu carefully soothed a hand down his back, over the incredible muscle, and then into the feathers. He sighed with contentment as his fingers settled into slick, cool feathers, and the hot down underneath.

When he looked up, Toriko's face was still in the dancing firelight, and his eyes closed. So Komatsu smiled, and leaned in a little bit further, and closed his own eyes, letting his fingers dance over sensitive skin, pulling out small bits of entangled debris, fixing shafts of feathers with smooth, even pinches to zipper the barbs back together. Komatsu didn't hurry, because just the thought of hurrying to get through the job left him furious the way he almost never was—but he didn't spend as much time on the neater areas, the ones that Toriko could reach easily, focusing on the places where Toriko couldn't get a good angle with his own hands, the places where a buckle rubbed or something had broken a feather shaft or just where the incredibly fine, delicate skin of Toriko's wings, whisper soft and so warm against his fingers, seemed somehow sore, or in need of preening.

Halfway through, Komatsu realized that he'd been absentmindedly reaching back to press his fingers against his own uropygial gland, that the preen oil on his fingers was his own, and he was putting it on _Toriko_. Komatsu jumped and yelped, and—Toriko had gone so relaxed and gentle, and Komatsu hadn't even realized it until he was suddenly tense and on edge and ready to _attack_ again, suddenly a predator, an apex predator—

"Sorry Toriko!" Komatsu said, a little too loud in his sudden frantic need to make things clear. "I was just—accidentally using my own preen oil, I'm sorry, I can't really reach your gland from here and I should have—it's weird! But—"

"Will you have enough?" Toriko asked, shifting so he could look at Komatsu. Everyone produced waterproofing oil for their feathers, but not always very much.

"Eh—me? Oh, yes! I'm an albatross, Toriko-san, I'll be fine even if I need to go for a long swim!" Komatsu let himself relax again into the soothing brush of fingers against feathers—hoping that maybe Toriko would relax again, too. "I just probably should have asked first," he said, blushing and embarrassed, then letting go with a laugh. "Sorry, sorry! I just got too focused on your feathers. —You really don't mind? Your feathers are a little dry," Komatsu said, not able to help a little bit of a frown. "I think I might have a little bit of feather oil—it's artificial, but—"

"No," Toriko said, so sure and _certain_ that it left Komatsu blinking. "They all smell wrong."

"Toriko! You can really smell that?" Komatsu said, amazed as always by Toriko—everything he was.

"I'd rather smell like you," Toriko said, with a shrug of a wing that bumped into Komatsu, leaving his legs half-covered under strong, thick flight feathers, each one almost the length of his arm.

"That's a little weird, Toriko," Komatsu said, humor in his voice—sure that Toriko would hear it too. He was rewarded with a laugh in return, and Komatsu let himself snuggle a little bit more under the spread of Toriko's strong wings. His fingers scratched just lightly against delicate skin, as Komatsu fluffed then settled the soft down under the secondary coverts, before switching to the larger, vaned feathers covering it, carefully settling each feather as he went. Under his fingers, he could feel Toriko puffing up his feathers, making noises of pure contentment in the back of his throat, pleased and comfortable and Komatsu had to smile, smoothing wispy semiplume feathers only to have them puff up again. —It was good, so _good_ , to have Toriko's feathers in his hands, as fluffed up as a happy chick, so good to help the steely feathers lay perfectly.

He was a little regretful when he finished the last feather, because he didn't want to be done—but just a little, because now Toriko's wings were as well-cared-for as they deserved to be, and because he could do it _again_.

Slowly, Toriko started to stir, feathers flexing before going sleek and flat, wings stretching—

Komatsu patted the wing closest to him, letting his fingers bump into sensitive allular feathers at the crook of Toriko's wing, urging him still again. "Don't worry about my wings tonight," he said, meaning it—his wings would be fine waiting a day or two. He just wanted to let Toriko drift off to sleep with the warm glow of just-preened feathers. "It's late! My wings will take too long."

Toriko blinked open an eye to stare at him, measuring, as penetrating as an eagle's glare could be, before he smiled sleepily, and turned to pull Komatsu into a tight hug, wrapping wings around him before letting go. Komatsu squeezed him back, tight and certain, before he let himself back off, ready to settle in for the night—and he was glad that Toriko's wings felt so good, because it made him feel less selfish, for all the happiness he'd gotten out of working with Toriko's feathers, all the joy.

\-----------

They weren't traveling in any hurry, so Komatsu made a big (huge, really) leisurely breakfast the next morning, a multiple-hour affair that left Toriko stuffed and smiling. His wings _did_ look better, Komatsu thought, pleased.

He was just starting cleanup when Toriko appeared behind him, pressing himself up against Komatsu's back, startling him enough that he dropped the soapy plate he had in his wet, slippery hands—Toriko caught it—and half-unfolded his wings, leaving the leading edge pushing against Toriko's arms.

"Ahhhh! —Sorry, you startled me!"

"Sorry," Toriko said, not sounding particularly apologetic—but he did back off, which immediately made Komatsu more regretful. "Is it okay if I..."

"Huh?" Komatsu asked, confused, until he followed Toriko's gaze to his wings.

"It's not like there's anyone else here," Toriko said, with an easy shrug—which Komatsu just didn't understand at all. "And your wings are _huge_ , Komatsu."

"It's a little ridiculous, I know," Komatsu said—still not entirely sure about what was happening, what had happened, but willing and ready to set it aside for a little while, and his wings suddenly itchy again, now that there was the promise of someone else preening him. He wiped the water off his hands and pulled off his apron with a shrug, stretching briefly then looking around the camp. "—Now? I can wait if we need to get going—"

"Come on!" Toriko said, bright and enthusiastic, dragging him over to a section of log, the right height for Komatsu to sit on, and far enough away from the still-smoldering embers of the fire, the cameleopards that were carrying their gear, and the thorny bushes dotting the arid countryside that Komatsu could unfold his wings all the way. He did, in a rush, blinking his eyes shut against the cloud of dust and sand he raised, then sighing as the hot sun began to warm his feathers, mostly white above except for dark primaries and gray-black penciling along the edges of the larger feathers, mottled dark below.

"Albatross, huh?" Toriko muttered, almost rhetorical, and Komatsu laughed, easy, eyes already closed in pleasure—the sun on his outspread wings, the promise of someone trusted preening him after a little too long with his wings untouched--and anticipation.

The first brush of Toriko's fingers against the scapulars along his shoulderblades, where skin started to be covered in feathers, made Komatsu shiver—Toriko's fingers were huge, and calloused, and still delicate, gentle, as dexterous as any chef's hands would be. He could _feel_ Toriko's attention focused on him, and it wasn't at all horrifying, the way it had seemed the first time he'd been next to Toriko in a fight—Toriko was a predator, an apex predator, harpy eagle wings and a wolf's grin, but his presence at Komatsu's back felt _good_ , not just safe.

"Is this good?" Toriko asked, fingers pausing for a second.

"Mmm? Oh! Yes—it's great," Komatsu said, a little too quickly and absolutely.

"Okay," Toriko said, fingers beginning to work through his feathers again, Komatsu going almost boneless with a sigh of pure pleasure as the itchy shafts covering the pinfeathers coming in on his upper wing coverts were loosened. And—there, a piece of grit that had been bothering him, large enough to rub—a twig or something—was knocked out.

Komatsu could tell that Toriko knew as soon as he reached a place that Komatsu couldn't reach himself--he slowed down even more, suddenly extra careful as Komatsu's toes curled, wings pushing a little higher, pushing into the soft pressure of Toriko's fingers. "Your wings are too long for you to preen them," Toriko said, voice remarkably neutral—almost troubled?

"Yes," Komatsu mumbled, not focused enough to raise even a hint of embarrassment.

"It's impressive," Toriko murmured, sounding almost as entranced as Komatsu was, just as focused as Komatsu had been, working on his wings the night before. Sounding like he _meant_ it, enough to make Komatsu blink sleepily in surprise—because Toriko's wings were incredible, huge—big even compared to Toriko, but not ridiculously out of scale like Komatsu's wings were—gorgeous and purposeful and powerful.

"You haven't seen my wings open before," Komatsu murmured, as the thought hit him.

"Hm?"

"Oh—my wings fold in thirds. It surprises people," Komatsu said, because it _was_ strange. At least, with all the ways that Toriko himself was strange—ways that had nothing to do with his wings—Komatsu didn't have to worry about it. "How big they are," he added.

"Otherwise you'd trip over them if they folded normally," Toriko said, and Komatsu had to laugh at the image that conjured up.

It took the rest of the morning, Toriko taking extra care with wings that needed it, a little behind on maintenance—Komatsu not able to convince himself to make Toriko hurry, because it was a perfect lazy day, bright and warm and Komatsu half-dozing, except only _half_ because Toriko's hands, his wrists and fingers and knuckles, and sometimes his mouth, were incredible, making every nerve in his wings light up with sleepy awareness and bright pleasure.

"You're drooling," Toriko said, but his voice was fond and warm, and quiet at Komatsu's side--he'd worked his way inwards along the second wing, and was running his fingers over the tertial feathers that covered his shoulder blades, hiding the transition from down to unfeathered, peach-fuzz skin. Komatsu laughed, wiping his face, ready to shift—Toriko had finished his wings, as thorough as anyone could ask and then some—but Toriko's hand settled in his hair instead, stroking over his scalp with the same careful focus, and Komatsu melted again, leaning into the bulk of Toriko's body, letting his eyes fall shut. Leaning against Toriko like this, he could feel him breathing, the peaceful deep inhalations.

"Tell me if you need help," Toriko said, finally rising—Komatsu waited until he was out of the way to fold up his wings, in a crisp rustle.

Something was bothering him—

"Toriko!" Komatsu blurted, turning to look at him, suddenly _afraid_. "You know—Toriko, I'd always want you to preen me. It doesn't have to be just when there's no one else! If—if you don't mind. If you don't mind, I _always_ want to preen your wings."

There wasn't any response, but when Komatsu dared to look up, Toriko looked so—surprised, and _relieved,_ that it stuck in his throat, and Komatsu had to throw himself at Toriko, wrap his arms around his neck and cling as fiercely as he could, because he didn't have the right words.


	2. Coco

Komatsu was unsettled and jittery as they left the cave, half because of the creature they had seen, half because the reality that he'd almost _died_ was still percolating through his mind. At least Coco and Toriko seemed almost as unsettled—or at least, they were willing to let Komatsu stick close to them, reaching out to put his hand on an arm, or tug at someone's sleeve, or just bump into them, little nudges of contact.

It also meant that Komatsu kept on watching Coco startle each time Komatsu reached out to him, the shock and _want_ in his face repeated with each gesture. It was almost as bad as all the rest of it, because it hurt so much—so much that it was like it would choke him—Coco so lonely. And holding himself back, out of fear of what he was—

Komatsu would have to trust him enough for both of them. And he _did_ , he knew that—it had been like a bolt of lightning, seeing Coco's face, forced amusement and resignation and loss so familiar to Coco that he no longer even knew it was loss—how could _anyone_ not reach out to him after that?

And then, staring at Coco's back on the long hike back to the surface, at his tightly folded wings glinting oil-slick green in the dim light of their lanterns, Komatsu had started to think about Coco's wings. And how long it must have been since anyone had touched his _wings_ , if even brushing hands was enough to startle Coco.

By the time they made it back up to the surface—a relief, Komatsu had to admit, even if he didn't for a second regret going down in the first place, and knew that he'd do it again in a heartbeat—Komatsu was anxious to preen Coco. He didn't know if Coco would want him to—and he didn't know if Coco wouldn't want him to because it would be invasive, or because he was being careful for _Komatsu's_ sake.

"Let me help you with your wings," Komatsu blurted out, when they got back to Coco's house. He bit his tongue before he could say anything else, already reaching out, hands just shy of actually touching the dark feathers—

"Komatsu," Coco began, looking _torn_ , and Komatsu squared his shoulders and barreled on.

"Coco! I _trust_ you."

Coco didn't have anything to say to that, and his heart in his throat, Komatsu glanced over at Toriko—who was watching him a glint of something encouraging and hopeful in his eyes—and then looked back at Coco.

He couldn't let Coco think he was afraid—he _wasn't_ , and Coco—

Was.

Komatsu wrapped his arms around Coco in a fierce hug, and then tugged him over to sit down, Coco slumping forward so that Komatsu could reach his wings more easily. He bit his lip so he wouldn't say anything out loud as he eased his fingers into feathers that clearly hadn't been touched by anyone but Coco in—too long. Years, Komatsu knew.

It was going to be a lot of work to get the feathers in order, but Komatsu would stay up all night if he had to.

"I'll help," Toriko said, sending Komatsu a look that he couldn't quite interpret, Toriko moving to Coco's other wing.

Coco held himself too stiffly, at first, as Komatsu tugged feathers back into shape, cleaning off lingering dirt, particles trapped by feather shafts, pinfeathers that had grown in where Coco's hands couldn't reach, so they'd never completely lost their covering. Komatsu hissed despite himself at patches still wet, where Coco hadn't been able to apply waterproofing preen oil to his feathers—Komatsu was a seabird, and he knew how dangerous wet wings could be. This time, Komatsu didn't hesitate to press his fingers to his own uropygial gland, because Coco's feathers needed more than his own body could supply at once.

When Komatsu gently fluffed apart a little knot of matted feathers, it took him a minute to realize that the noise he'd heard was Coco, a soft content sigh—and he realized that, while he'd been hyperfocused on Coco's wings, Coco had relaxed, taught muscle going limp and eyelids slipping closed. He wasn't asleep, but he was so _relaxed_ , and Komatsu knew that this small victory meant the world.

But it wasn't over yet, and Coco's wings still needed a lot of work. Not letting his hands still, Komatsu looked over at Toriko, his own hands busy in the dark green-black feathers of Coco's wings, and smiled at him, Toriko smiling back, even wider—and then the soft flex of Coco's feathers registered, and Komatsu turned back to the sore spot he'd found, determined to help Coco in any—in every—way he could.

\--------------

Komatsu yelped and flinched as something bit the delicate skin of his wings—dangerous on the slippery, exposed trail bordered by a sheer cliff face. But Toriko's arm was between Komatsu and falling, and Coco had grabbed for his wrist—Komatsu managed a shaky smile at them.

"Komatsu, please _try_ to be careful," Coco said, face pale.

"Sorry, Coco! Something's—ouch! There's something biting the skin of my wings, a bug or something," Komatsu said, feathers flexing uselessly against the desire to flap. Komatsu couldn't even begin to unfurl his wings here—and it probably wouldn't be enough for him to dislodge whatever had bitten him even if he could.

"Biting feather-flies," Coco said, with a frown.

"Huh?" Komatsu said, eyes going wide. "You know what they are?"

"I didn't think about it," Toriko said, sounding uncharacteristically guilty. "...Sorry, Komatsu. I forgot. Me and Coco are too powerful for them to bother."

"Is it dangerous?" Komatsu asked, worried—putting aside that it was the baron leech all over again, but Coco didn't look worried enough for that to be the case, and Toriko was already shaking his head.

"Not in the short term," Coco told him, his hand still holding onto Komatsu—although his vice-like grip on the wrist, a desperate last-minute grab, had transitioned into gently clasped hands. "I can help you, later."

"It's okay!" Komatsu said, trying to put the whole mess out of his mind.. "I've dealt with worse—it's just—ow!—an annoyance." It certainly wasn't a problem they could address here, with the narrowest little ledge to maneuver on.

His bright smile didn't seem to keep Coco from frowning at him, clearly worried.

It was just fifteen minutes or so later that they reached the top of the canyon, but it had felt like hours to Komatsu, even while he'd been careful not to yelp too loudly, or flinch too obviously at each painful bite. The scuttle of legs and flat insect bodies through the shafts of his feathers had him itching and twitchy, only half from the thought of what was biting at him.

"This looks like a good spot to camp," Toriko announced—and Komatsu could manage a real laugh at that, because he clearly cared a lot more about the small grove of trees so laden with fruit that the branches were almost breaking. He swung off his pack, letting it fall at his feet, and twitched his wings. Before he could go any further, Coco caught him—which would have stopped Komatsu no matter what, but was _especially_ important with the most reticent of the Kings.

“Your feathers first,” Coco said, voice so intent it verged on dangerous, incongruous enough to make Komatsu blink at him.

“I should get dinner started--my wings are so _big_ , Coco-san, it’s a long project--”

“Doesn’t matter,” Coco said tightly.

Komatsu turned automatically to Toriko, half-expecting him to complain--it had been a long afternoon with minimal snack breaks by their normal standards, and Toriko’s caloric needs had to be pushing at him.

Toriko had dropped his pack and was busy swallowing a mouthful of something, but he was obviously ready to settle in. He hadn’t even drifted over towards the groves of trees.

Komatsu blinked--if he was planning on helping, too-- “You should eat if you’re hungry, Toriko,” he blurted out, unable to help himself.

Toriko looked almost insulted, then--confused, the slightest edge to his expression verging on bereft, before it went carefully blank. “Coco can help you,” he said, easily, the way he was always easy, except--not. “We’re not going to leave you with _feather parasites_ , but I guess with Coco here…”

Komatsu knew he had no reason to think that Toriko actually _wanted_ to, but--

“I really want these things out, it’s awful, but only if you don’t need to eat, I know you need to--”

“This is more important,” Toriko said, very quietly, and he averted his eyes before Komatsu could be sure, but he thought he looked relieved.

He couldn’t help but remember Toriko’s surprise, or not surprise, but shock, _bewilderment_ , when Komatsu had told him it wasn’t necessity, that had him asking, or it had been necessity that had driven him to ask, but not because he otherwise wouldn’t choose to have Toriko’s hands on his wings--

The way Toriko had hesitated, at first, waited for an invitation, before preening him. The way that _now_ he was unselfconsciously hedonistic in the way he preened Komatsu’s wings, almost indulgent in how often he reached for his feathers, idly, running his hands over his primaries or coverts when they had a few still moments.

Komatsu was a little too aware that Coco probably hadn’t seen his full wing span before as he unfolded his wings, trying hard to keep from flapping in an instinctual urge to get _away_ from the horrible insects slipping through the barbs and down, biting into sensitive skin to drink the rich blood. He knew he looked ridiculous; his wings would have been disproportionate on someone Coco’s size, or even Toriko’s. He’d adjusted, mostly--his family had been almost all tube-nosed seabirds like him, but they’d also all been petrels, storm-petrels, shearwaters, fulmars, _small_ seabirds.

The wings were supposed to be the reflection of the soul--one of those things nobody really believed in, but also everyone _believed._ And Komatsu’s wings were ridiculous.

Komatsu couldn’t see anything over the hook of his wings, but he could feel Toriko’s fingers bury themselves into his down, and it immediately eased some of the itch, even if he knew it was just a response to the promise of relief.

“C’mon, Coco,” Toriko said, half a growl.

There was a long silence, and Komatsu tried to ignore the sinking pit in his stomach. Preening was--intimate. And he’d helped Coco with his wings, but…

“He’s got you to help,” Coco said, sharply, and Komatsu tried to hide a flinch, failed, and hoped that it would be excused as a reaction to a feather-fly bite.

“And it’ll go faster with you,” Toriko said, all long-suffering like _he_ wasn’t one of the most stubborn people on the planet.

“Don’t make Coco help if he doesn’t want to,” Komatsu said, forced himself to say, though a dry mouth. “I’m--it shouldn’t be an obligation? I know my wings are--” his laugh was a little painful, even to his own ears, “--a little excessive, and it’s _fine_ , I can just wait for you--”

“It’s not that!” Coco said, insistent, voice tight. “If he has you to help, Toriko--if you have Toriko’s help, Komatsu, there’s no need for--I’m poisonous, and it might just be better--”

“No!” Komatsu protested immediately, feeling almost a little dizzy from the whiplash of his relief. “I mean--Coco, if you don’t want to, I understand. But if--if you _do_ , I trust you, I--you know I’d always trust you?”

“Anyway, you can make that insecticidal preen oil, right?” Toriko threw in, casual.

Komatsu shivered at the first touch of Coco’s hand on his wing, even if it was stiff and uncomfortable, even if it just rested on top of the feathers instead of digging into the down. It was so incredibly, unreally indulgent, these two men with their hands on his wings, calloused fingertips and huge hands with so much restrained strength, all that attention focused on him. Even with the awful itch of the biting flies. Toriko’s hands had become as familiar as his parents had been, long ago, and it made him hyper-aware of the differences of Coco’s hands.

“You have such beautiful wings,” Coco murmured, and Komatsu barely caught it, knew his smile went stupid and ridiculous when he processed the words, even if he couldn’t quite believe them. “How on earth do you keep them in order?”

“Toriko helps,” Komatsu admitted, pleased but a little bashful. “He--Toriko, you have _wonderful_ hands! And I mean, I sometimes wish I was more self-sufficient, but there’s just no way for me to reach most of the feathers. At home I--ohhh, that feels incredible--at home I’m part of a preening circle--you know, other people like me, without family around, or a significant other, or much of a network of friends--I need to, really, my wings are ridiculous--”

“No,” Toriko said insistently, his fingers deftly squeezing the life out of a little biting insect, then soothing over the irritated spot.

“No?” Komatsu asked, a little confused.

“Your wings aren’t ridiculous,” Toriko said, as stubborn about the point as a dog with a bone.

“I mean--attached to the rest of me--”

“Your wings suit you,” Coco cut in, unexpectedly, his fingers stilling for just a moment. Komatsu paused, no idea where to start with that--because it just _wasn’t true_ , it was a fact, one he’d accepted, it didn’t bother him--he wasn’t handsome, out of proportion with himself, and his wings were beyond unusual and into ridiculous.

 

“They don’t, though?”

“But they’re _yours_ and I like your feathers,” Toriko cut in, with all the force of his personality behind the statement, like his world couldn’t contain anything different.

“Toriko!”

“It means there’s more of you to preen,” Coco said, sounding deeply pleased about that--and maybe just a little bit cautious, like he wasn’t sure if Komatsu would be okay with that, the implication that he was enjoying it, that he wanted to continue.

“It’s--okay, I’m never going to complain about being preened by people I--people I trust, and they are _my wings_ , but… I know I’m not ever going to be handsome. You don’t have to pretend otherwise!”

“I think you--your wings are beautiful,” Coco said, just a little bit smugly. “And I have very good eyesight. It’s true, you’re not classically handsome, but your wings suit you.”

“Okay, think whatever you want to!” Komatsu said, halfway between flustered and amused, throwing up his arms. “I--thank you for the help. It feels really nice, having people I know well preening me. It’s… I get lonely, you know? But I’m too busy to have a relationship with anyone other than my staff, and I could never ask them, and that was even before trips with you, Toriko! Then, I’ve lost touch with most of the people I’ve known… And maybe if I was something sensible, a passerine or a, a I don’t know, a woodpecker, it wouldn’t be as much of a problem, preening myself, even if I didn’t _miss_ it so much, miss having that closeness…”

The silence trailed on, and Komatsu buried a blush between his hands.

“...I like being preened by you,” he muttered, embarrassed but determined to finish. “Almost as much as I like preening you. _Both_ of you, Coco, you have--such beautiful wings, and--it means a lot to me, to be able to help.”

“You probably shouldn’t--not with my wings,” Coco said, voice dry as a desert. “Not with the poison, Komatsu. But--you know something about how long it’s been, for me. I’ll--if you ever want, I’d be happy--I want to preen you. If--whenever you want, if you like it, you can preen my own wings. I can only do so much myself. And there’s no one--no one else.”

“Me,” Komatsu said instantly. “Always--for you, _and_ for myself, Coco. I miss… I miss having friends like that. You can--whenever! I’ll give you my address, even. I mean, I know it’s a long way to go for something like that, but…”

“Me too,” Toriko said, a little terse, but obviously _meaning_ it. “You too, Komatsu.”

“I--it’s hard to believe that, sometimes? I just feel too lucky. But thank you, I--it means so much to me.” His eyes were prickling with tears again, and Komatsu tried to shake them away.

“Either of us. Whenever you want, or need. But _want_ is--that’s fine, that’s reason enough.” Coco’s hands didn’t still, dancing through his feathers, comfortably slippery with preen oil from Coco’s own uropygial gland--preen oil that would leave him protected against any other feather parasites--and Komatsu nodded automatically.

He probably smelled at least a little bit like Coco to Toriko’s nose now, and the thought was weird, but warming.

-End-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coco is a green heron! They're smaller solitary herons, somewhat secretive, a water bird but more associated with fresh water than salt - although some individuals do forage in salt water. Green herons appear over-all darkish and plain from a distance, but have gorgeous colors up close, dark green and purple-brown and chestnut and iridescent gray. They're also quite smart - green herons are known to drop bread, insects, or event twigs/leaves into the water to draw in fish to catch, qualifying them as one of the rare tool-using species. That's even rarer in a bird species that's not parrots or corvids.
> 
> Not relevant to this fic: Brunch has bat wings. If he's a tengu (and therefore bird-associated) in canon-verse, then when normal people are bird-associated, he's going to be mammal-associated. This makes sense to me. Also, yes, he absolutely licks Komatsu's wings whenever he can. Grooming is still a thing, and he doesn't know what to do with all those _feathers_ , damn it.


	3. Sunny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE'S ART!!!! [hugscakeanddragons](hugscakeanddragons.tumblr.com) aka Moo drew [TORIKO AND HIS WINGS](http://semianonymity.tumblr.com/post/170675122282/hugscakeanddragons-semianonymity-harpy-eagle) and aaaaaa _aaaaaaaaaaa_ I am so thrilled!!!
> 
> And then I got a ton of wonderful comments on Just Partners and I am like. So touched, you guys. By the feedback to this fic, and all my other fics, and it means the world to me. THANK YOU FOR STICKING AROUND IN THIS TINY LITTLE FANDOM WITH ME!

Sunny looked at Komatsu, flatly unimpressed, perfect cupid’s-bow lips just shy of a sneer. Komatsu looked back at Sunny, and rubbed sheepishly at the back of his neck, a little flushed, trying not to feel too shabby and plain.

“Your feathers could be worse,” Sunny said, not particularly impressed. “But your diet could be improved.”

“Um,” Komatsu began, shifting a little. He’d been teased for his wings before, of course--but the state of his feathers had never been one of those things. “I try to take care of--we’ve been on the road a few days now, and there hasn’t been the time for preening.”

“There is _always_ time for preening,” Sunny hissed.

“I fell asleep last night before Komatsu finished my wings,” Toriko interrupted, his own wings flashing as he shrugged--and they _did_ look better than they used to, with Komatsu preening him. Toriko could reach all of his wings, but he was perfunctory in his work on his own wings, and incapable of getting the perfect angle. Komatsu--he always took his time, but with Toriko’s wings, it was so often so hard to keep from lavishing attention on them, until every feather was laid perfectly straight, glowing with health. “And I didn’t have time to do his before we left in the morning.”

Sunny, if anything, looked even more outraged, and Komatsu tried not to wince, or at least not too obviously.

He took good care of his wings, at home. But on the road, there was both less time, and fewer people to help. Just Toriko, really, or Coco when he was there and could be talked into it. (Komatsu spent a fair amount of time working on his arguments for that, because--because it was _Coco_. Ordinarily, he’d never try to push, he’d _never_ want someone pushed into something uncomfortable for them, but… But Coco wanted to be pushed, Komatsu thought.)

“...Ridic’lous,” Sunny muttered, staring with faint but open disdain at Komatsu, and--there. That was it, him taking in just _how_ unsuited for his wings Komatsu was. They were huge, far too big for anyone but let alone Komatsu, and as an albatross, his primary-to-secondary ratio was low. Even by seabird standards, really. His wings were made for long-distance flight, incredibly energy-efficient dynamic gliding, evolved for birds that could go weeks or months without setting foot on the ground, spend years out at sea. They were not aesthetically pleasing, by usual standards--and there weren’t any other tube-nosed seabirds here, Procellariiformes uncommon, and Komatsu at an ungainly extreme even by those generous standards.

Komatsu tried not to hunch defensively, because Sunny had a _very reasonable point_ , but he was still unbearably grateful when the conversation shifted, Sunny clearly dismissing him, and Toriko being careful to act as a buffer around Komatsu.

\----------------

Later on, after being stranded with Sunny, after the mammoth and the battles and then all the cooking, as the feast was finishing, Komatsu was increasingly, uncomfortably aware of how dirty his wings were. He was sure that he looked a rumpled mess, and it was just _awful_ to think of Sunny looking at him like this. He was certain that any allowances Sunny made for his physical appearance wouldn’t cover this kind of neglect of his wings. The embarrassment was almost worse than the physical discomfort; the size of his wings wasn’t something he could control, but their cleanliness was.

In all honesty, under most circumstances, he never would have set foot in a kitchen with his wings in the shape they were. It wasn’t _unhygienic_ , exactly, but it felt wrong, like cooking barefoot.

As the regular kitchen staff took over, IGO-employed busboys and dishwashers, it was pretty easy to slip away. The Kings had already left the table, every last scrap of food devoured, and Komatsu had the vague thought that Toriko’s wings probably needed attention, too. ...he had options other than Komatsu, here, with Sunny around, with Coco.

If nothing else, a long shower would get out some of the dirt, and then he could preen what he could reach, and ask for help with the rest tomorrow, from Toriko or Coco or maybe even _both_ , if he was going to let himself fantasize about--

“Disgustin’!” Sunny snapped out, and Komatsu bit back the urge to flinch.

“S-sorry,” he started, trying not to show that the other man’s words had cut him a bit, even if they were _true_ \--

“Come here! No no no--your wings are too _big_ \--”

Komatsu flinched again, minutely.

Toriko’s head was poking out of an open door a little ways down the echoing hallway, and that was Sunny pointing dramatically at Komatsu, one hand on his hip and his face very, _very_ expressive.

“I can’t reach all of them so I was just--it’s late, I’ll rinse off the worst of the dirt and--find someone to help tomorrow--” Komatsu darted a desperate look down the hall at Toriko, trying to cry for help with a look. Toriko just grinned that much wider at him.

“ _Disgustin’_ ,” Sunny repeated, even more venom in his voice this time.

“Don’t be rude,” Coco said, voice tartly disapproving. Of course he was there, too, appearing from behind another doorway. His own wings had already been tended to.

Komatsu’s hands knotted together. “It’s just--it’s late, and I _know_ it’s awful but, I don’t want to make anyone--”

“This way!” Sunny snapped, one hand landing firmly on Komatsu’s shoulder, both gentle and implacable.

“I don’t want--it’s--”

“Quiet!” Sunny demanded, practically pushing him down the hall. Komatsu was honestly kind of surprised that he hadn’t just demanded he get out of sight. Because he _knew_ that no matter what Sunny thought of his cooking, or of him as a person, he wasn’t ever going to be beautiful, not in the way that Sunny liked.

He was too short, very plain-looking, and he didn’t _mind_. He didn’t mind that his wings were so incredibly disproportionate, really, except for the lingering twinges of high school teasing and the extra difficulty it caused. His wings were bigger than _Toriko’s_ , even though he himself was a quarter of the other man’s size.

The shower appeared to turn itself on as they swept in the door to the preening room, Komatsu pushed briefly underneath it, his wings flaring automatically at the shock of water. And--his clothes were soaked. Komatsu--hoped, that whatever was happening, Sunny wasn’t actually mad, because he _seemed_ to be, and Komatsu had tried to make it not his problem--

“Out of your clothes,” Sunny demanded, even though his back was turned to Komatsu, apparently selecting the perfect towel. “They’re filthy.”

There wasn’t wasn’t really any _reason_ why being unclothed should feel so much more vulnerable, Komatsu thought, struggling out of wet clothes, his shirt dragging unpleasantly against dry feathers, protected from the dampness by waterproofing preen oil. Objectively speaking, clothes hid almost nothing, and--

Sunny was still impeccably dressed, and waiting impatiently for Komatsu to finish. He’d never been body-shy before, but--but placed next to a man who _did_ care, Komatsu fought hard to keep from curling in on himself, defensively.

“You really don’t--”

“Of course I do! Your wings are a disgrace, and it’s disgusting I have to look at them.”

...That made it. Worse. Komatsu’s shoulders slumped inwards, wings falling forward to leave him half-shielded, but of course, that just showed off the disordered and mussed feathers, the dirt and debris that the very brief shower hadn’t managed to dislodge.

“I’m sorry, I--I can take care of most--well, some of it,” Komatsu said, his voice sounding thin and unsteady even to his own ears. “I can’t reach most of it on my own. But--you don’t have to, Sunny. I can do what I can tonight, and Toriko or Coco can help me with the rest tomorrow--I don’t normally let it get this bad--it’s just there’s so _much_ to preen--”

“You absolutely can’t go to bed like that! _‘Matsu_ , that’s terrible.”

“...Please,” Komatsu tried again, starting to tremble. “If you don’t want to--I need the help, I’d love to have it, but--I know what my wings are, and who I am, and I’m _fine_ with being unattractive, and I like the wings I have even when--even though sometimes they’re inconvenient or embarrassing. But--Sunny, _please_ , if you don’t want to preen me, please don’t. You can’t--”

Sunny made a small pained noise, and Komatsu buried his face in his hands, stress and exhaustion and pain all tangled up in his chest.

“--I don’t want you to touch me if you don’t want to.” Komatsu tried to make it sound firm, confident, but mostly it sounded wistful. “I can find someone else to help, or--just stay out of sight, I don’t want to bother Toriko or Coco after such a long day...”

Komatsu trailed off. The silence was deafening, and Komatsu firmly blinked away tears. He knew he cried easily, but this was--ridiculous--

“...I want to preen you,” Sunny whispered, voice so quiet Komatsu could barely hear, and so vulnerable and _fragile_ that it hurt like a blow to the solar plexus. “I’m sorry I--you’re beautiful, ‘Matsu--”

“Sunny, _no_ \--”

“You _dare_ to question my taste? I--it just takes time, to appreciate you. The only thing about your wings that should be different is they should be _clean_. And I…”

The silence went on so long that Komatsu wasn’t sure Sunny was going to finish the thought at all.

“...I’m sorry. I do--can I preen you, Komatsu? I would like to.” Sunny’s words were stilted, and uncomfortable, and achingly honest.

“Yes please,” Komatsu managed to say, all at once in a big rush, and then he burst into tears, because he was tired and on edge and he _wanted_ to believe what Sunny had to say, what he was hearing, because--because Sunny was _beautiful_ and because he didn’t want Sunny disgusted by him, because his wings needed, desperately, to be cleaned, but the only thing worse than living with the dirt and discomfort was thinking of Sunny feeling _forced_ to preen him, hating every second of it--

“No, oh no, no ‘Matsu, I--what’s _wrong?!_ ”

“I’m s-sorry, it’s just--I’m tired, sorry, I--”

“What the fuck, Sunny,” Toriko demanded from the doorway, voice deceptively mild and a steely threat in his eyes.

“No, it’s not--it’s just me, you know--” Komatsu tried to wipe his eyes, and then gave up when they just filled with tears again. “Nothing’s wrong!” he tried again.

“I brought you clean pajamas,” Toriko said, looking at Komatsu. It was, Komatsu thought reflexively, probably Coco who’d had the thought in the first place, but that was part of what made his heart warm. “Do you need help with your wings?”

“If Sunny doesn’t want to--”

When Komatsu looked over, Sunny looked wide-eyed and panicked. “No! I--let me help you, ‘Matsu. I--”

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to!” Komatsu repeated. “I’m just--me. Ugly, with my own kind of beauty to my cooking only, and I know how much you like beauty.”

Toriko was, Komatsu realized, growling, low and feral deep in his throat.

“--but I believe you when you say you want to!” Komatsu added hurriedly, because he was afraid Sunny was going to cry, too, and because he was afraid Toriko was going to attack Sunny, and his wings still needed preening, not drywall dust and ceramic shards. “I just don’t--really know why.”

Now _Toriko_ looked like he might start crying, too. And Komatsu was still standing between them, these two incredible men, and--

“I’ll shower and then--you can help me?” Komatsu asked, turning to Sunny. “I’d--if you don’t mind, I’d really like it.” Shower first, though, because the total nudity was a little much, especially in front of a fully-clothed, put-together Sunny, and he didn’t want to put on clean clothes before he’d washed off the dirt and sweat.

When Komatsu emerged from the shower, skin scrubbed pink and pajama pants that Toriko had to have taken from Komatsu’s pack tied securely around his waist, Sunny’s hair was loose from the high ponytail it had been in, a glorious waterfall spreading out around him. He looked more composed, which was partially a relief and partially intimidating, because Sunny was lovely and haughty and extraordinary and untouchable.

But he wanted to preen Komatsu’s wings. He’d said so, and turned down options to do otherwise. Even if Komatsu wasn’t beautiful.

“Where do you want me?” Komatsu asked, a little self-conscious the way he hadn’t been for months with Toriko--they’d fallen into an easy, seamless rhythm, giving and receiving touch, knew each other by now.

“Wherever,” Sunny said, with a cool toss of his hair, lips curving in a proud smile. “With my sensor ability, I’m better at preening than _anyone_ else.”

Komatsu’s giggle was a little bit watery, but entirely genuine as he relaxed onto a preening chair, leaning forward into the headrest and spreading his wings, jumping just the slightest bit at the sudden touch of Sunny’s hand, a few degrees hotter than the average person, and Komatsu was selfishly glad that it wouldn’t just be Sunny’s feelers preening, because they were too fine for him to feel the way he could feel Sunny’s hands.

And maybe it wouldn’t be over too quickly. Not that he wanted to inconvenience Sunny, but…

The sound Sunny made as he edged his fingers into where the feathering started on Komatsu’s shoulders was deeply pleased, indulgent even, like this was something to _savor_ , and it still made no sense, but. But. Komatsu could enjoy it, anyway, understanding or no.

“You need to eat better,” Sunny muttered, and Komatsu stiffened just a bit, before Sunny pushed at his shoulders--soothing, even pressure, even though Komatsu could feel both his hands halfway down his wing. “...So I’m using some of my preen oil. Your diet needs to be more _beautiful_ , ‘Matsu, this is why I can’t just let Toriko do whatever--”

Komatsu almost protested, but--but he couldn’t, not when Sunny was preening his wings with the slightest, most delicate movements, minute attention paid not just to the feather shafts but the barbs and barbules and plumes of down, detail anyone else simply _couldn’t_ do, and all at once, all up and down his wings. And he suspected--he hadn’t asked, and he couldn’t recognize the wings without a clue--that Sunny was seabird too, of some sort or another, and so he’d know how important uropygial health was. Seabird people worried about feather waterproofing, deep and instinctual down in their bones.

“But your wings are so lovely,” Sunny said, a few minutes later, and the warmth that bloomed inside him at the words were an incredible gift.

\---------------------

“Sunny could I--can I help you preen your wings?” Komatsu blurted out, a few days later, halfway through cooking lunch, Sunny watching him.

The silence was long enough for Komatsu to finish whisking the pearlmilk into his roux, and he turned around, disappointment like a pit inside him, as he realized just how ridiculous that was. “If… you don’t mind. I know it’s--you can do a better job than me on yourself, too--”

“Yes!” Sunny almost shouted, too loud, too forceful, but the disbelieving _joy_ in his eyes was so precious that Komatsu knew he’d do anything to encourage it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sunny is a red-billed tropicbird! They've got these incredibly gorgeous, luxurious tail feathers 2-3 times the length of their body, white wings with a splash of black at the primaries, and a wing shape that's designed for dexterity and maneuverability. They are a seabird, and spend very little time on land--in fact, their feet and legs are remarkably weak, and it often takes them several passes before they can successfully land on the rocky cliffs they nest on. They're one of 3 species in their genus, and the genus is the only representative of their order, meaning that they are only very distantly related to all other birds. They're a little weird, very pretty, and a blend of practical and impractical, and I had to pick them for Sunny.


	4. Zebra

It took three hours in the aerial tram house before Komatsu broke.

Zebra was loud and destructive and _terrifying_ , and his wings were in worse shape than Komatsu had ever seen.

Komatsu trusted Toriko with _everything_ , implicitly and explicitly, and that included Zebra, even though he was a criminal, a natural disaster in human form, more than capable of killing Komatsu the way he’d threatened to. So he kept that thought circling through his head as he mustered up his courage: _Toriko would never put him in danger he couldn’t rescue him from, Toriko would keep him safe from anyone and anything._

“The fuck are _you_ staring at?” Zebra demanded, suddenly much, _much_ closer, and Komatsu squeaked, flinched backwards, slammed into the wall.

“S-sorry,” he managed, flinching again when that earned him a furious growl, one that echoed through his bones like an earthquake.

“Are you getting _cocky_?”

“I don’t think so! Maybe! I-- _can I please help with your wings?_ ” Komatsu blurted out, then froze, standing very still and wide-eyed because he’d just blurted that out, out loud, to this monster of a human being.

“What,” Zebra said, the word sharply enunciated, dropping into the sudden ringing silence like a stone into a still pond.

“I know it’s rude! And probably cocky! But your wings look _terrible_ and I know you barely know me, but--I could help! And Toriko hasn’t offered! And I will help, if you don’t mind, I’m sure you can--reach most of your wings yourself, but it’s been--a while, and, and--”

_A while_. Chained up, for years, bound at both wrists and both ankles, fed only on still-living meat he managed to capture. No one to touch his wings, no way for him to do it for himself, and they looked _awful_. Komatsu didn’t even know what color they were underneath the dirt, dead feathers that had never been preened out caught between feathers that had never fully unfurled from pinfeather stage, the barbs still half-caught in the keratin sheath. They were dangerously dry, years since anyone had applied the preen oil that kept feathers moisturized, supple, protected from bacteria and fungus, protected from the elements. Dangerously dry except for where, right beneath the preen gland at the base of Zebra’s neck, the feathers oversaturated in excess oil, dark and matted, where the overfull uropygial gland had leaked.

It _hurt_ , to see someone like that. Zebra had showered, shaken out the worst of the dirt, but it was still--just not enough.

And he’d just told an infamously volatile criminal that he looked terrible, that he hadn’t taken care of himself, and taken the liberty of offering an _intimate act_ to that man, someone he’d known for a few hours.

“You really fucking mean that, kid? You _really_ gonna be that fucking cocky?”

His heart thumped in his chest like a frightened rabbit staring down a wolf. Maybe a human being could die of fright--or maybe Zebra would just finish him off.

(No, Toriko would protect him, Toriko would _always_ protect him.)

(...If he could reach him in time. If he could defeat Zebra while trying to protect Komatsu, if he hadn’t underestimated the threat that Zebra placed--)

Zebra was actually waiting for an answer. Komatsu swallowed, mouth dry, and managed to speak. “Yes?” he said, voice cracking.

More silence, just as deafening as Zebra’s shouts.

“I don’t want to offend you! It’s not--just, you need--your wings--I’m sorry,” he finished, trailing off miserably.

“Okay,” Zebra said, turning his face away, and the air whooshed out of Komatsu’s lungs in something that was half relief and half shock.

“Okay,” Komatsu repeated, trying to stand on knees that felt as wobbly as a newborn fawn’s, eyes prickling with tears. “If you’re…”

Zebra growled wordlessly, and Komatsu gave up and stepped forward. Zebra stepped away from him, his long strides taking him halfway into the middle of the room, where he turned abruptly and sank into a sitting position, wings unfolding outward.

Komatsu wanted to cry, looking at the neglect.

“Let me know if I--miss something, or if it’s too much--” Komatsu started, stepping forward further, hands reaching out to hover over corded muscle, damaged feathers, puckered scars.

“Mess up and I’ll just kill you,” Zebra snorted, and Komatsu flinched, again.

But pushed his hands into the mess of feathers anyway.

He didn’t even know where to _start_ , because no healthy person would have wings like this. But it was, he told himself, the same principal. His fingers knew what to do, even if he had to move at a glacial pace.

“Can I use my own preen oil if you run out?” Komatsu blurted out. “It’s--sorry, but we don’t carry artificial with us--” Toriko didn’t like the smell, and revelled in the two of them swapping back and forth, until they smelled like a mix of each other, Komatsu and raptor and Toriko and seabird.

Zebra shrugged, and Komatsu swallowed, and pressed his fingers to Zebra’s uropygial gland, and slid down the shaft of a feather that had gotten crimped in an unreleased pinfeather sheath, as careful with this stranger’s coverts as he was with Toriko’s flight feathers, because he needed it, because--some part of him whispered--he deserved it, deserved this simple human decency.

Toriko had started at the tip of the other wing--a relief, because there was a _lot_ of wing to cover, not especially long in terms of wing-to-body ratio, but scaled up to fit a giant of a man, heavy and broad and powerful. Duck wings, maybe, Komatsu thought, only bigger than he’d ever seen before. Of course, Zebra was bigger than anyone he’d seen, too.

Komatsu wondered, a little bit, why Toriko hadn’t offered. But he knew that things had gone--wrong, somehow, between Toriko and the other Kings. He didn’t know that they could give each other that kind of intimacy, anymore, not without someone else to act as a buffer.

Underneath the dust and dirt and the grayness of abuse and malnutrition, there were hints of chestnut and russet and white, and a dirty black that Komatsu suspected would turn out to be iridescent green-black, someday. Probably not today--it would probably be a full molt cycle before Zebra’s wings looked right again--but maybe someday.

He’d do his best.

And Zebra had gone soft and yielding under his fingertips, muscle relaxing that had been tight since before he’d met them, Komatsu realized. Zebra’s feathers had relaxed for the first time since they’d seen him in the Gourmet Prison--he’d just alternated between puffed-up threat and slicked-back urgency.

He was crying again, Komatsu thought, and he wiped his eyes off on his sleeve so he wouldn’t drip saltwater onto Zebra’s wings, and turned his attention back to opening up Zebra’s matted feathers, fluffing them apart, gently sliding them into place, letting light and air and cleanliness into wings that had been kept tied down, in the dark, for far too long. For the sake of the person wearing them, who was so used to it he hadn’t even thought to fix it. Someone who was so alone he only had a stranger to offer him help.

\------------------

Komatsu was slumped against Toriko, happy and exhausted after a long day capped with cooking for the two most insatiable Kings. He’d just finished his own meal--it was only half the time that Toriko managed to talk him into eating before he was done cooking--and the minimal dishes could wait a little while longer. Toriko or Zebra would probably take care of it--a just slightly strange but very appreciated development, the two of them aware of the dishes cooking for them produced, helping Komatsu out even when it was, technically, in his sphere of influence. Not at the restaurant, of course--like Komatsu would _let_ them--but when it was an informal meal, eaten camped out in the wilderness or at Komatsu’s apartment or a rented cottage they were sharing.

Tired, Komatsu tried to smother a yawn, then gave up and stretched into it, angling himself carefully so he didn’t hit Toriko when his wings unfolded, a long luxurious arc, feathers rustling into place.

When he tucked his wings back in, opening his eyes, he just caught Zebra looking away, something like yearning in his eyes.

...It couldn’t be him, could it? But. But there wasn’t anyone else, or anything else.

“Zebra? Could you help me with my wings?” Komatsu asked in a rush, nervous--that he’d misunderstood, that he was overstepping his bounds, maybe even that he was forcing Zebra (Zebra, who _wanted to be his partner_ ) into fulfilling a request he felt obligated to, not because he actually wanted to.

He’d helped Zebra with his wings since that first time, usually with a veneer of bluster over top of it from Zebra himself. And underneath it the grim understanding that, other than Toriko, Komatsu was Zebra’s only option.

Traveling together, it was only Toriko who’d preened Komatsu’s wings. Half the time he offered, and the other half he just settled himself by Komatsu and started. He usually didn’t wait until Komatsu needed to ask, but sometimes Komatsu asked anyway, just for the extra comfort, the extra pleasure. They were comfortable with each other, knew each other that well.

And Toriko was there, and Komatsu could have asked him. But Toriko had preened his wings the night before, and they were fine--strong feathers, well taken care of, no reason to preen them again except that he _liked_ it. 

It was probably selfish, and definitely cocky, but Komatsu wanted Zebra to preen his wings.

“...not that you need to, it’s, um, it’s fine if you’d rather--”

“Don’t be so fucking indecisive,” Zebra snapped, like it was reflex, but he was looking at Komatsu with _caution_ in his eyes, like Komatsu could hurt him. “...You’ve got Toriko here. He can do it.”

“Yes,” Komatsu said, steeling his nerve. He didn’t… know Zebra _that_ well. Not really. It hadn’t been long. But in the ways that counted… “I could, but um--would you? If you don’t mind….?”

There was nothing, and Komatsu blushed, fierce embarrassment and the sting of disappointment, worry that his assumption had damaged their relationship--whatever it was.

“Sorry,” he said, lowly. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Um. If I did. I wasn’t _trying_ to be cocky--”

“You’ve got _Toriko_ , so why the fuck are you asking me?” Zebra snapped, furious enough that Komatsu flinched, out of surprise and the awful fear that he’d upset the balance they had between them.

He hoped Zebra knew that, because he knew that Zebra had caught it. He was a predator, like all the other Kings.

“Because,” Komatsu said, voice shaky, stopping and dragging in a breath, pushing it out, slow and careful. “Because I’d like you to. If you wanted to. Or if--you didn't mind. Because I--it’s something I’ve always done? With friends, family, the people I’m closest to.”

“Toriko is your _partner_ ,” Zebra said, low and threatening.

“That doesn’t mean you’re not important, too,” Komatsu said. Still too loud, too honest, too unrestrained. “No--I didn’t mean it to be pushy.”

“Like you could push me around,” Zebra growled, but Komatsu was terribly afraid he _could_. Not physically, and not via threat, but because Zebra was who we was, and was so desperately alone.

“Sorry,” Komatsu repeated, muffled as he buried his face in his hands, embarrassed and hurting and not wanting to show it.

“...Okay,” Zebra said, and Komatsu nodded, face still hidden.

“Okay, I’ll preen your damn wings,” Zebra said, louder this time, still like it was a threat. Next to Komatsu, Toriko growled quietly at him, a brief little warning.

“Not if you don’t want to,” Komatsu said, firm, _certain_ , unhesitating in this. He knew what he wanted, didn’t want, and. He didn’t want to be an obligation, didn’t want it to be anything but something two people wanted to share.

He had the awful thought--not a new one--that Zebra only put up with Komatsu preening him because he had so few options.

“I want to,” Zebra said, so softly Komatsu could barely hear. Terribly vulnerable, looking at Komatsu like he was dangerous, like he was something to fear.

Like he held fresh water in a desert, when Zebra was dying of thirst.

“Yes,” Komatsu said, then louder. “Yes. If--if you want to. I like preening you, I’m going to like _being preened_ by you--not just because there’s no one else. Because it’s you.” He shifted, Toriko pushing him up, so he could reposition himself next to Zebra, back to him, wings opening up again, well-maintained but preening wasn’t just about _maintenance_. It was, fundamentally, about touch.

_I trust you at my back_ , that meant. _I like your touch_. Komatsu knew--hoped Zebra knew--that that was what that meant.

And when Zebra’s hand brushed against his wing, the skin of his fingers rougher than Toriko’s with scars and callouses, but his touch even more careful, even more gentle, Komatsu shivered, pushed further into the touch when Zebra hesitated like he might pull away.

\-------------------

Zebra’s arrival was never really going to be a true surprise, Komatsu thought, because the news followed Zebra like they would a volcano, like he was a kind of weather, the reports longer and more frequent the closer he came to civilization.

The extra attention paid to a shot someone had snapped of his wings, looking clumpy and shabby the way molting wings always did, was just extra humiliation. It was, Komatsu thought, a miracle that Zebra hadn’t attacked someone over it, and he couldn’t help but be relieved about that. At least in part because Zebra’s place in society was tenuous, and Komatsu cherished the moments he got with him. An assault charge would just make everything _worse_. It was the first time he would get to see Zebra--assuming he was coming to visit--in his own home, someplace Komatsu was completely comfortable in.

But as nice as seeing him would be, the breathless debate on the television over whether or not the irritation of being in molt made him even more dangerous was. Awful. Even for Komatsu to listen to, and he only had half the morning news, before he turned it off and started cooking. Zebra could hear the newscaster and the camera crew and every single conversation across the city, and every word said about him.

Dehumanizing, Komatsu thought, grimly. Like he was a dangerous animal. And he _was_ dangerous, but he was no more an animal than any other person was.

The knock on his door was a relief.

Komatsu didn’t bother to check himself as he threw himself through the open doorway, grabbing Zebra in a breathless hug, squeezing tight to offer him whatever comfort and reassurance he could.

“Thank you for coming,” Komatsu whispered, just barely a breath, because he knew Zebra would hear, and because it was meant just for him. And then he hurried him inside.

At least it had been made clear to the news crews and camera teams and paparazzi exactly what would happen if they bothered Komatsu in his home. Toriko and Sunny had issued the threats, the most secure in their status in the world, the more acceptable of the Kings.

“Whatever,” Zebra snarled, but Komatsu knew him well enough to hear his relief.

Food first, Komatsu thought, but Zebra _was_ molting, a few feathers drifting out even as he stood there.

“Can I help with your wings while you eat?” he blurted out, because he _hated_ molting, the way most people did, the itching and pain and unfamiliar balance, the nagging hunger that accompanied it, the occasional broken pinfeather and the ensuing bleeding, all of it.

Zebra looked ready to take mock-offense, but then he just… deflated. “Yeah,” he muttered. “...It’s bad.”

Komatsu turned him--or tugged on one hand until Zebra turned himself--and hissed. He’d heard of it, starvation and stress culminating in one big, cataclysmic molt, every feather dropping near-simultaneously instead of proceeding in organized, progressive waves. Enough food and freedom--even just the freedom to _move_ was more than he’d had--and a few months after Zebra’s release, his wings were a ruin.

Only because they needed to replace themselves, urgently. And it was worse than the picture had shown. There were ugly patches of bare pink skin, stippled with dark pinfeathers, other places where the new pinfeathers were coming through patches of feathers that hadn’t fallen out yet, old mixing uncomfortably with new. The primaries and secondaries, the big flight feathers hooked into the bone, were molting too, in big uneven patches, and even though people’s wings weren’t ever really functional for more than gliding, it _felt_ like an additional vulnerability to have vital flight feathers missing.

Komatsu was completely incapable of protecting Zebra from most threats, but Zebra had come to him anyway. Braved public dissection and being treated like a rabid animal, just for this.

“Please stay,” Komatsu said, a little desperately, trailing his fingers oh-so-delicately over pinfeathers still hot with blood, the feather still growing. “As long as it takes. ...As long as you want.”

“Thanks,” Zebra said, the words awkward on his tongue, so full of relief Komatsu had to hug him again, so very careful of his wings.

\------------------

Zebra’s wings were _beautiful_ , Komatsu thought. He hadn’t really expected otherwise--he knew his Kings.

He’d spent hour after hour running his fingers through Zebra’s wings over the last few weeks, and it was a bright, hot relief to see him now, feathers fresh and strong and healthy, preened and then re-preened just for the sheer physical satisfaction of them both. Even if it had been, in some ways, a terrible necessity, it had been a _luxury,_ Zebra sprawled out and Komatsu half-under a wing as he teased off the flaking edge of a pinfeather quill, fluffed down that was just growing in, so very gently removed the old feathers as they were released. He’d worked half-hours at the restaurant, ordered in a lot of food, and spent all the rest of his time with Zebra, most of it with his hands in his feathers. Zebra had returned the favor, when Komatsu had let him, when the sheer misery of his wings had let up enough to keep from distracting him.

And he was glorious, with fresh plumage and the shine of well-kept feathers, and Komatsu hadn’t been able to resist pressing his face into the coverts just to feel the silkiness, the health, smell the soft grain smell of Zebra’s wings at their full glory.

“The fuck are you doing?” Zebra demanded, not meaning it, and Komatsu laughed into feathers and down. Zebra shivered, presumably at the tickle of breath against sensitive filoplumes meant to track wind patterns and speed.

“Your wings are so _beautiful_ ,” Komatsu said. Couldn’t stop himself from saying, really.

Zebra twisted, looking over one shoulder with a deeply doubtful expression.

“No, they are!” Komatsu insisted, running fingers over the bright cinnamon-red tertiary flight feathers, the ones closest to Zebra’s back. “They’re _wonderful_.”

“Whatever,” Zebra said, trying to sound grumpy, but the smile on his face was precious, and unmistakable.

-End-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is, officially speaking, the final chapter! But, uh. I really _really_ like preening and might have to revisit this 'verse at some point for more tender hands-on-wings action.
> 
> Zebra's wings are an Egyptian goose. It works on several levels for me, but primarily it was because I wanted something very aggressive and also very social. And that adds up to goose. Egyptian geese are not actually true geese--they're more closely related to shelducks--but they fit every other qualification. And are actually unlawful to own in the state of California because of the degree of aggression they exhibit. But they're still also _flock birds_. It worked for me aesthetically, too, and then there's the desert connection plus Egyptian/pyramids/Mellow Cola arc, and--I just couldn't resist.
> 
> Thank you so so much to everyone who's read, enjoyed, commented, kudosed, favorited, and/or reblogged! It means the world to me.

**Author's Note:**

> Komatsu is an albatross, probably a wandering albatross simply because that's my default albatross. They have really, truly, ridiculously huge wings.
> 
> Toriko is a harpy eagle, a South American species, that is one of the largest extant (not-extinct) eagle species. They are also sometimes called monkey-eating eagles, because they're forest predators large enough to carry off monkeys and sloths up to 15 pounds.
> 
> Preening is both a functional/hygienic necessity (feather maintenance) and a very important form of social bonding. Some people can maintain their wings themselves, but most can't. Even if they're capable of the feather maintenance, it's unusual to not have at least one other person help with preening on a regular basis. People without a close social network (long-term romantic partners, family, very close friends) will pay for someone to help with wing maintenance, either in a salon or in-home, or find a group of similar people who help each other out, a preening circle. Both these solutions can be considered embarrassing or shameful in public opinion.
> 
> The technical term for preening other individuals is allopreening, and it's a very important social mechanism for many bird species!


End file.
